Breaking the Habit
by 8tendveni
Summary: "We're worried for you. Please stop." He's tried so hard to cooperate, tried so hard to get better, but the voices in his head won't stop yelling at him, won't leave him alone for a second...[Two-Shot]


" _ **You need to stop this addiction of yours now."**_

He contemplates on those words as he nervously holds a bottle of tiny, white pills in hand, his back facing the bathroom door to hide the orange container in his hand. They've said it over and over again- " _We're worried for you. Please stop."_ \- and he's tried so hard to cooperate, tried so hard to get better, but the voices in his head won't stop yelling at him, won't leave him alone for a second. " _Please give us just one"_ they plead with him, beg him. They sound almost kind for a second, but when he doesn't comply to their commands, they instantly grow hostile and unpleasant, yelling over and over how useless and pathetic he is. Yelling, screaming, tearing down his self esteem one by one. The voices eventually lead to terrible migraines, so he's left with no other choice but to take one pill. One turns into six, and three hours later he finds himself sleeping in the kitchen cabinet with little recollection of the previous hours before.

They're at it again. Fear vibrates through his core as the familiar voices make themselves known.

" _ **This is unhealthy."**_

They're whispering now, a collection of various voices speaking to him, but their demands are all the same. _Pills, pills, pills_ they chant with a growing intensity. _Pills, pills, pills._ It takes him awhile, but he replies with a strained no, his eyebrows furrowed with obvious discomfort. His boney fingers grasp the container with malice and rejection, mouth pulled into a tight line; he will not give in to their demands this time. He will be strong, in control of his own actions. He does not need to be bullied by these...these figments of his imagination.

Maybe if he ignored them long enough they would go away.

" _ **Why would you do this to yourself?"**_

Five minutes pass and they're getting angry. He can hear it in their voices as their choice of chant shifts from 'pills' to 'now', irritation and dissatisfaction lacing their words. _Now, now, now_ , they growl, and he winces slightly at the hostility in their many voices. He's beginning to grow scared- he wants to run away from them, but how can you run away from things that aren't real? His world shakes slightly, his stance beginning to sway. His back hits the wall, and in a moment of weakness, he falls to the floor. His tall, lanky arms wrap around his being, scratching at his skin, fingernails practically digging into the pale surface. The pills fall from his hold and roll away from him.

He doesn't know what to do anymore.

" _ **We're scared. We want you to be ok."**_

He wants to be ok. He wants to be fine, but he knows he never can. He's 25 now, but these voices, this sickness, has been plaguing him since the beginning of his middle school days. He's gone to many doctors in hopes of receiving an answer or a cure, but they always end up writing him a slip to some therapist that usually fails to help him. He doesn't need anybody talking to him- the voices do it too many times already.

He remembers his mother taking him to the pharmacy and buying his first bottle of pills. The name of the brand slips his mind (it was far too complicated to pronounce, much less remember), but he does remember the euphoric feeling that washed over him after popping in one pill. It was calming, soothing, inviting; he remembers feeling so giddy and happy and, for once, the voices left him alone. A whole hour of no mysterious chatter going about in his head.

It was the best feeling of his life.

" _ **Please don't do this anymore."**_

Their chants have gone from hushed whispers to terrifying screeches, their chant much more demanding and forceful than it was minutes ago. His hands shoot up to his ears desperately to try and block out the sound, but it's no use. They're literally inside his head, and there's no escaping that. He gnaws at his bottom lip, quiet sobs beginning to wrack his frail body.

" _ **Please…"**_

 _There's only one way for this to stop_ , they all say in unision. _There's a way for it to end._

He doesn't respond.

 _You want to feel better, want to feel good. We want you to get better too. But you have to do it now._

Again, silence. Only his sobs echo through the large room.

 _Come on, 2D, we know you want to…_ Their voices are a lot more quieter now, and not so menacing as they were before. In fact, right now, they sounded...very nice…

Slowly, he removes his hands from his ears, allowing them to fall limp to his side. He takes a few deep breaths to calm himself down, and once he's finally relaxed (or as relaxed as he could muster), he turns his head to the right. Lo and behold, there's his bottle of pills lying on the dirt-stained ground, possessing an odd gleam to it as it stood in the dull lighting of KONG studio's bathroom.

"Just...one pill." He mutters to himself as he reaches out for the bottle. "Only one. I promise."

" _ **You're going to die if you keep this up."**_

The voices quiet down as he skillfully throws one into his mouth and down his throat, their request finally being fulfilled.

 _That's a good boy...you're feeling better already…_

He doesn't remember what happens after. Only a hazy image of him pouring two more pills into his hand clouds his mind before a familiar black haze blankets his conscious.


End file.
